Reaching the gates of the city, they slowed, as a caravan of some size had just finished passing into Ylith and several other travelers were waiting for it to clear the portals before they could enter. Jimmy reined in behind a farmer’s hay cart and spun his horse to face his companions as they rode up, laughing at the momentary frolic. Without words they fell into line, watching as soldiers passed the cart through. In these peaceful days, the soldiers seemed to be giving only the most cursory inspection to those passing into the city.
Jimmy looked about, for Ylith was the first large city encountered since they’d left Krondor, and the busy metropolitan rhythm was already making him feel at home. Then near the gates he noticed a lone figure hunkered down, watching those who passed through. From his tartan plaid and leather breeches, it was clear he was a Hadati hillman. His hair fell past his shoulders, but a warrior’s topknot was bound high, and he wore a rolled scarf tied above his eyes. Across his knees rested a pair of wooden sheaths, protecting the sharp edges of the long, slender sword and a shorter half-sword common to his people. Most striking about the man was his face, for around the eyes, from forehead down to cheekbones, his face was painted bone-white, as was his chin directly below his mouth. He clearly studied the Prince as he passed, then slowly rose as Jimmy and Martin followed Arutha and Laurie into the city.
Jimmy suddenly laughed aloud, as if Martin had joked, and stretched, affording himself a quick glance behind. The hillman was slowly walking through the gates behind them, putting his sword and half-sword in his belt-sash.
Martin said, “The Hadati?” When Jimmy nodded, the Duke said, “You’ve a quick eye. Is he following?”
“He is. Shall we lose him?”
Martin shook his head. “We’ll deal with him once we settle somewhere. If we need to.”
As they rode up the narrow streets of the city, they were greeted by signs of prosperity on all sides, for shops burned brightly with lantern light as merchants showed their wares to those out shopping in the cool of the evening.
Even at this early hour of the evening, celebrants were about in numbers, as guards from caravans and sailors in from months at sea were out in force, seeking whatever pleasures gold could buy. A band of rowdy fighting men, mercenaries by their look, pushed across the street, obviously working on a heroic drunk, yelling and laughing. One bumped against Laurie’s horse and, in a display of mock anger, shouted, “Here now! Watch where you’re pointing that beastie. Shall I teach you manners?” He feigned pulling his sword, to the delight of those with him. Laurie laughed along with the man as Martin, Arutha, and Jimmy kept an eye on potential trouble.
“Sorry, friend,” said the singer. The man made a half-grimace, half-laugh as he again motioned as if to draw his sword.
Another from the mercenary band pushed him roughly aside and said, “Go have a drink,” to his companion. Smiling up at Laurie, he said, “Still can’t ride any better than you can sing, Laurie?”
Laurie was off his mount instantly and embraced the man in a bear hug. “Roald, you son of a whoremonger!”
They exchanged backslaps and hugs, then Laurie presented the man to the others. “This black heart is Roald, a friend since boyhood and more than once a companion on the road. His father owned the farm next to my father’s.”
The man laughed. “And our fathers threw the both of us out of home on almost the same day.”
Laurie introduced Martin and Jimmy, but when he reached Arutha used the agreed-upon name of Arthur. “Pleased to know your friends, Laurie,” said the mercenary.
Arutha cast a quick glance about. “We’re blocking the thoroughfare. Let’s find lodgings.”
Roald waved a hand for them to follow. “I’m staying in a place the next street over. It’s almost civilized.”
Jimmy spurred his horse forward and kept an eye on this boyhood friend of the singer, studying the man with a practiced eye. He had all the earmarks of a seasoned mercenary, one who had been earning a living with his sword long enough to be considered an expert by dint of his still being alive. Jimmy glimpsed Martin looking rearward and wondered if the Hadati still stalked them.
The inn was called the Northerner, respectable enough for a place so near the docks. A stableboy roused himself from a sorry-looking meal to take their horses. Roald said, “Keep them well, lad.” The boy obviously knew him. Martin tossed the boy a silver coin.
Jimmy watched the boy catch the coin in midair, and as he gave over his horse’s reins, he placed the thumb of his right hand between fore-and middle fingers, so the boy could see. A flash of recognition passed between them and the boy gave Jimmy a curt nod.
When they were inside, Roald signaled for the serving girl to bring ale as he pointed to a table in the corner, near the door to the stable yard and away from the normal flow of customers. Pulling out a chair for himself, Roald discarded his heavy leather gauntlets as he sat. He spoke just loud enough for those at the table to hear. “Laurie, last time I saw you was what? Six years ago? You went riding off with a LaMutian patrol to look for Tsurani to write songs about. Now here you are with”—he indicted Jimmy—”this short thief here.”